


Salt Berries

by cptnbvcks



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hand Feeding, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, Touch Starved Mando, heartbreaking fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:42:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21846124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptnbvcks/pseuds/cptnbvcks
Summary: The Mandalorian likes berries. He likes them more when you’re the one feeding them to him.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Comments: 24
Kudos: 1011





	Salt Berries

“What are you feeding him?”

You startle at the sleepy drag of the Mandalorian’s voice, deeper still through the synthetic warping of his helmet’s modulator. 

The orange summer heat of Sorgan must have lulled him off. If not the heat, you were sure his battle battered body had finally relented to its own exhaustion. 

You wonder how long he’s been awake as you turn away from the cooing baby, finding him still in the same position he had fallen asleep in, arms clasped loosely over his stomach and his body slack with relaxation against the wicker cot. 

His helmet was still facing the sky and you wondered if his eyes were even open, if he was watching the smattering of translucent clouds as they drifted in the vast ocean of the planet’s sky. You wondered if he was watching you instead from the corner of his eye.

“Salt berries,” you respond, itching the top of the child’s forehead as he babbled in delight from within the straw basket filled with blankets. You dusted your skirts as you stood, leaving the child to observe as you approached his pseudo-father, “Omera’s daughter just dropped some off.” 

“I can smell them,” The Mandalorian says, his head still unmoving as you lowered yourself down to the floor beside his daybed, stretching your legs out before you. Amusement plays on your face as you bite back a teasing smile, setting the bowl of vibrant purple berries down on your lap.

“I didn’t think you still had a sense of smell under that thing.”

The Mandalorian’s head shifts and now you feel the warm heat of his gaze, hotter than the evening sun on the back of your neck as you unsuccessfully press your lips together to hide the grin that threatens to spread across your face. You wonder for a fleeting moment if he was smiling too.

“Sorry,” you apologize, but even the word comes out on the bursting bubble of a laugh. Lowering your gaze, you pluck a berry from the bowl and slip it past your lips, hoping that by keeping your mouth busy it might spare the bounty hunter from your sharp tongue.

The berry was plump with juice and sweet bursting flesh. The thin skin of it textured with frosted dew points that left a small brackish tang on your tongue. It tinted your lips sunset pink. 

The Mandalorian was still watching you.

A sudden wave of timidness washed over you like a sun-warmed gust of air. 

He watched you a lot more often these days. You would pretend not to notice, but you always caught the quick turn of his helmet in your periphery when you glanced back his way. Nervously, you pressed your lips together as your tongue swiped across your sticky lower lip. 

You noticed a falter in the steady rise and fall of his chest. 

Had he been holding his breath?

“Salt berries,” he repeated, testing the words on his tongue, “I’ve never heard of them before.” 

“Do you want a taste?” 

The silence that falls after your question makes you want to swallow the words right out of the air and kill them before they reach the Mandalorian’s ear. Your cheeks match the berry stain of your lips and your brows cringe together with embarrassment. You open your mouth to apologize again but the quiet suddenness of his response squashes the words before they form.

“Yes.” 

His voice is heavy through the modulator, ladened with _something_ that made such a simple affirmation sound like both a demand and a plead. He doesn’t move from his position and you realize that he’s waiting for _you_ to come to _him_. 

Your eyes search the vacantness of his helmet’s visor as another beat of silence passes between you. Slowly, you gather the rags of your skirts and shift on your knees until you’re beside his cot. 

Still, he does not move. 

You don’t know why you do it. You don’t know what compels you. Perhaps it’s the stillness of him, the quiet docility of his position that almost reminds you of the temptation to pet a sleeping beast that only looks friendly while it’s unconscious. Your hand lifts towards the underside of his helmet. 

The speed of him startles the breath from your lungs as he catches your wrist. His grip is firm but he does not hurt you. He never hurts you. Your eyes flicker to the visor again, assuming where his eyes may be. All you can see is the reflection of yourself in the glimmering beskar steel. 

“This stays on,” the Mandalorian says. His words are firm. No room for argument or negotiation. Still, a softness lingers there. Quiet, but loud in the words he doesn’t speak. The desires he would never voice. 

“This is the Way,” his voice trails at the dutiful repetition of the Mandalore chant.

Longing. 

Even through the warbling of the modulator, you hear it and it pulls apart your heart.

You nod. His fingers loosen, hesitating a moment longer around the cusp of your wrist before releasing you completely. The profoundness of the Mandalorian’s trust is not lost on you. 

Your eyes follow the path of your hand as your fingertips brush against the rough protective cloth that rose over his neck before disappearing beneath the headgear. You hope he can’t feel the small tremor of your hand as it slips between the gap of his helmet, your palm resting meekly over the curve of his jaw as your fingertips find the edge of the material. 

You can feel his breath. Unsteady. 

The Mandalorian was _nervous_. 

Slowly, you pulled the loose fabric down over his mouth, his chin and jaw. Stubble scratches roughly over your knuckles and the humid air of his unhindered exhale felt just as comforting as the mid-summer atmosphere. 

The moment’s glimmer of surprise danced over your features as you pressed your palm to the warm flesh of his cheek _,_ bare and vulnerable and oh — so _human._ He exhaled, shorter than the last breath, and you felt it on the inside of your wrist. You couldn’t see his face, but the hazy image of him grew a little clearer now.

For a moment, you couldn’t feel the weight of his stare. Perhaps his eyes had slipped closed. 

“The berries,” he reminded you, his voice soft and coaxing. Careful as he broke you out of whatever quiet thoughts you were having. 

Your cheeks burned redder as you drew your hand back, averting your gaze back to the bowl of berries. 

“Sorry,” you apologize again, shaking your head slightly at the flustered realization that maybe you had been too forward. 

“Don’t be. It’s… alright.” 

You looked back up at the bounty hunter as the reassurance seemed to hesitate in his mouth. For once, it seemed, the Mandalorian was at a loss for words and it wasn’t because he had nothing to say. On the contrary — the Mandalorian, all at once, had far _too much_ that he wished to say. Things that he knew that, once spoken, could never again be unspoken. 

So he fell into his silence again as you picked out a supple looking berry from the bowl. 

You dipped your fingers beneath his helmet again, trying your hardest not to drop the small fruit as your fingertip bumped against the soft texture of his lip. 

He was watching you again. 

_Gods,_ you could have whimpered as you felt his lips part for you. Not enough for the berry to slip in easily. No — he only parted his lips just enough that you had to press the round body of the berry until he caught it on the tip of his tongue. 

Your mouth ran dry as the warm wetness of his tongue dragged over the delicate pad of your finger. Against your own volition, your own tongue brushed over the plush flesh of your bottom lip before you caught it between your teeth. 

His lips closed around your fingertip for just a moment longer, nursing the berry juice from your skin, before you drew your hand away. The Mandalorian may well have burned you from the way the warmth of his mouth drew an incessant awareness to the heartbeat that thrummed under your skin. 

You felt breathless and dizzy, warm all over from a heat that wasn’t caused by the mid-year Sorgan sun. This fire was solely the Mandalorian’s. 

Behind the beskar, the man watched you — seeing the way your berries stained your lips and wondered if his lips were stained to match. The berries were named aptly; salty and sweet, exploding all at once on his tongue, though the taste of your fingertips lingered beneath. Salty sweet. 

He imagined your mouth tasted the same. 


End file.
